


A Full, Rich Day

by justalittlegreen



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cock Sucking, Contemporary AU, Dirty Talk, Fisting, Friends With Benefits, Fucking, Life-Affirming Sex, M/M, Minor Character Death, Modern AU, Multi, Threesome - M/M/M, Trans Male Character, Trans Trapper, Trans Trapper McIntyre, Trans!Trapper, actually they still are, as slow a burn as I ever write, best way out of a funk, birthday fic, it takes a minute to get to the fucking, probably some highly inaccurate medicine, they were roommates, they're in RESIDENCY ok?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:34:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26385709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justalittlegreen/pseuds/justalittlegreen
Summary: Residency is stressful. Working the emergency room after a major bus crash even more so. So what are three roommates to do with all that stress and too little time for dating?A gift for QueerOnTilMorning. Happy Birthday, darlin. thank you for being the world's best smutfriend. I'm so glad we decided to kick off this pandemic by confessing our mutual smut habits.This will update throughout the day in accordance with Birthdaying.
Relationships: B. J. Hunnicutt/"Trapper" John McIntyre/Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [QueerOnTilMorning](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueerOnTilMorning/gifts).



The day started as it often did - with BJ pausing to make coffee on his way in the door, knowing Hawkeye and Trapper would be awake soon. It had been a reasonably quiet night in the ER; he'd spent at least three hours of it napping in the on-call room, the rest of it back and forth between a fifteen year old girl who needed stitches, a briefly exciting birth that they'd managed to veer away from a C-section and get upstairs in time, and a consult for a minor car accident in which the only thing truly needed was a chance to sober up.

As the coffee pot began hissing and gurgling, BJ flopped down on the couch, rubbing his eyes and grabbing his laptop. Working nights was a beast for daily tasks; he'd often set reminders to _pay the electric bill tomorrow_ or _get Hawkeye's birthday card_ and then promptly forget about them until 4am the next morning, on shift. Today, all he needed to do was adjust the weekly grocery order; after nearly a year of trying to schedule shopping trips and buy things for one another, they'd agreed that sharing the costs of grocery delivery beat the arguments and frustrations of always being out of milk.

BJ ordered orange juice and another carton of eggs, and was contemplating the philosophical question of Oreos versus anything Pepperidge Farm when Trapper walked in, towel knotted around his waist. He poured himself a cup of coffee - BJ knew better than to even offer a _good morning_ before Trapper was appropriately caffeinated - and closed his eyes appreciatively as he swallowed. When he opened them, he glanced over his cup at BJ.

"What's cookin', good lookin'?"

BJ smiled. Someone clearly slept well. He looked up at Trapper, admiring his arms and shoulders, sliding into a bald-faced leer as his gaze trailed lower. Trapper sipped and smirked, clearly appreciating the appreciation.  
How much longer are you on nights?" Trapper asked, rinsing his mug and stashing it back on the shelf. "I could get used to the coffee service."

"Another month," BJ said absently, scrolling. He yawned. He heard Trapper shuffling around the kitchen, pouring cereal. "I picked up your prescription," he added. Another advantage of the night shift - no lines at the hospital pharmacy at 7am.

"Oh, thanks," Trapper said. "I knew I was going to forget something today, and tonight's - "

"Yeah," BJ said, closing his laptop and standing up. "How'd the switch go, anyway?"

"So much better," Trapper said, shaking his head. "No idea why I stuck needles in my ass for so long when I could've been pinching belly fat the whole time."

BJ snorted, casually patting Trapper's stomach as he made his way to the stairs.

Hawkeye was on the landing in his oversized maroon bathrobe, yawning into his fist. "You make coffee?" he mumbled as BJ hustled up the steps.

BJ shoulder-checked him as he passed. "Maaaybe." Hawkeye grunted wordlessly in response, thumping down the steps. BJ heard him stop halfway down, as if he'd just remembered something. He paused in the doorway to his bedroom, waiting for it.

"You remember? Trap's? Thing?" Hawkeye called from the stairwell, still foggy with sleep.

"Yeah," BJ called back. The thumping resumed. BJ shuffled into his room and kicked his shoes off.

His bedroom was the biggest of the three - his overtime paid the most rent - with a king-sized bed (after a lifetime of his feet hanging off the end of normal beds) in a dark wood frame, and woven rug in various shades of blue. A deep indigo quilt covered his bed - BJ believed in bed-making as a quasi-spiritual practice - and a leather easy chair sat in the corner, covered in a pile of clean laundry.

BJ shucked his scrubs and fell facedown on the bed, rolling over to plug his phone in the charger. He fell asleep within minutes, quickly enough that he didn't notice Trapper come up to his open door, slip inside, pull the blackout curtains shut and cover him with an extra blanket.

He didn't wake up until past noon, when his cell phone vibrated with such intensity it fell to the floor with a clatter.

  
*

BJ scrambled to grab the phone as it skittered out of his reach. If this was some kind of robocall, or his mother forgetting his night shift schedule…  
The screen read _Red Alert_ and buzzed insistently as he squinted, his sleep-soaked brain struggling to make the connection. Oh. Red Alert - _shit_.

Despite knowing what was coming, BJ picked up the call. Immediately the calm, robotic voice that reminded him of the Star Trek computer (hence the name ‘red alert’ in his phone) began its urgent message: _This is an urgent message. There is an immediate need for all medical personnel. Please report to Level 3 for triage assignments._ He saw two missed calls from the ER chief, Dr. Sherman Potter, and several automated texts from the emergency service.

BJ hung up, awake and pulse racing. He kicked off the covers and shimmied back into his scrubs. Not more than a minute after the hospital’s call, his phone buzzed again. Hawkeye.

“What is it?” BJ asked as soon as he picked up, shoving his feet into his still-tied sneakers.

“Bus meets train,” Hawkeye replied. It was still quiet in the background, meaning he was making his way from the surgical floor down to Emergency. “Bus stalled on the tracks, got everybody off, signals failed, and when the train saw the bus, it derailed rather than crash, which hit half the bus passengers,” he explained. “I’m about to get in the elevator, I might lose you.”

“Shit,” BJ swore softly. “When you get down, tell Potter I’m on my way.”

“You got – ” Hawkeye’s voice cut off, and the call ended. BJ raced through the kitchen, poured the dregs of the coffee pot into a mug and knocked it back cold.  
Once he arrived, he ignored the directions to go to the third floor, knowing Sherman would catch him up as soon as he made it in. He took a gamble on parking – and luckily, his boss _had_ taken the train to work today. BJ pulled into the Chief of Emergency Medicine parking spot and sprinted across the lot.

“I’m here!” he called as an ambulance pulled in to meet a squad of waiting doctors and nurses at the bay’s entrance. None of them outranked him; it was a crew of residents and a nurse, who beckoned him over. She had an extra pair of gloves in hand.

BJ handed his wallet and keys to the youngest of the residents. “Get these somewhere I’ll find them after,” he said, snatching the gloves. The resident took off running.

“Thanks, Maggie,” BJ said, snapping the gloves on. “How’d you know I’d be here?”

“I didn’t,” she said. “But I’m glad you are. It’s a mess in there.”

The ambulance stopped, and a paramedic opened the back doors. Maggie leapt toward the stretcher as it came to the edge, helping them lift it down while the EMTs rattled off stats at BJ and the residents.

“What’s your name?” BJ asked the patient – a young man with a large piece of metal wedged in his shoulder.

“Walter,” the kid said faintly.

“Hi Walter; I’m Dr. Hunnicutt,” BJ said calmly, meeting Maggie’s eye and rolling the gurney through the open doors. “Do you know where you are?”

“Yeah,” came the reply. “I was on the train. I love trains. Did you know they’re so much safer than cars?”

“Usually so,” BJ said, scanning the ER for an open spot to bring him. He caught Potter’s eye across the chaos; the doctor pointed him towards an open triage room. He followed with a nod. “Sorry you caught a statistical anomaly, Wally. What’s your last name? Is there someone we can call for you?”

“O’Reilly. Walter O’Reilly. Only my mom calls me Wally,” Walter said. “There’s…an awful lot of blood on me.”

“Good news is that there’s still a lot of blood in you,” BJ said, hitting the breaks on the gurney. “Walter, do you know your blood type?”


	2. Chapter 2

Two hours after BJ’s arrival, things hadn’t slowed down at all. Other hospitals were calling to say they were overwhelmed and couldn’t take any more patients. BJ threw himself into triage, running from bed to bed, keeping track of who needed what, ordering scans and labs, trying to clear space as fast as he could without missing something important.

In any hospital, but especially the ER, it was easy enough to ignore the sounds of the dozens of machines trying to communicate at any given time – a cacophony of beeps and trills, shrill and alarming, none of which usually meant anything incredibly urgent.

There were, however, a few tones that still raised the hair on the back of his neck. One of them rang out to his left as he speed-walked past a row of curtained beds. BJ turned on his heel and sped toward it, yanking the curtain open and lunging for a fresh pair of gloves.

The patient on the bed was Walter, the kid he’d brought in first, and the shrapnel that had been holding everything in place and keeping him stable had gotten dislodged. He was still alone, and blood had soaked the sheets beneath him. BJ swore and called out the ER’s code word for _get the fuck over here immediately unless you’re doing CPR_.

“Choppers! Choppers, curtain four!” BJ yelled, moving to put pressure on Walter’s bleeding shoulder. Footsteps came in behind him almost immediately.

“What’ve we got?” came two voices simultaneously. BJ nearly sighed in relief as he recognized Maggie and Hawkeye. He explained in a rush as more doctors came by to check if there was a need for extra hands.

“Are we good here?” Potter called from the other side of the bed.

“Could use an extra set of hands, if they’re good ones,” Hawkeye said. BJ looked over from his position. Hawkeye was the best of the cardio residents, and everyone knew it, but he was accustomed to far less frantic environments. He knew Hawk could handle the damage to the kid’s ribs and chest, but having an assist to cut through the commotion would speed things along. Potter knew it, too. Maggie offered him gloves and a gown. 

“Walk me through it, Dr. Pierce,” Potter said in his slow, flat drawl. BJ held his position, keeping the shard of metal where it was, trying to prevent further loss while Maggie hung a unit of O-negative and held an oxygen mask over the O’Reilly kid’s face.

Hawkeye cut into his chest and swore. Even Potter dropped his patient-teacher-doctor routine and started hustling, packing gauze and moving aggressively with suction.

“Just let me know when I can pull this out,” BJ said, his hands still stabilizing the shrapnel, wishing he could jump in to help.

“I don’t know that you can,” Hawkeye said, frowning, sweat beading on his forehead. “Shit, this kid’s a sieve. Maggie, hang more blood, O-neg all day. Let’s go.”

“He’s losing it faster than I can pump it in,” she said. “Are we missing something?”

“Take over suction,” Potter ordered, handing it to her. He grabbed a spare scalpel and started slicing through layers – a sweater, two undershirts. “Damnit! She’s right. We missed a second spot. BJ, this kid’s got Plexiglas shot through his pelvis and I can't see a damn thing. Maggie, get me a pressure bandage. Let's try and keep him with us long enough to get him to OR. Pierce, pack and close. Kellye!” he shouted, calling for one of their best nurses.

"Got my hands full, chief!" came a call from two beds down.

"Empty 'em and move!" Potter shouted. A moment later, the tiny curtained space was even fuller as they shuffled to make room for the extra nurse. BJ saw Kellye's eyes widen as she came sprinting in. He winced. Kellye was an ER veteran with almost as many years as Maggie, and some time she'd done in the army. BJ rarely saw her look surprised. 

He squeezed his eyes shut for just a moment. He heard Maggie calling numbers, bad numbers, heard Hawkeye and Sherman scrambling for purchase, barking orders. They never had a chance.

Twenty minutes later, the kid flatlined. Potter called it for him. There was no time for heroics or an attempt at miracles. The four of them staggered out of the room and dispersed, each headed in a different direction.


	3. Chapter 3

They saved more than they lost; in fact, Walter O’Reilly was one of only two fatalities. The other was a bus passenger who’d had a heart attack while watching the train derail, and was pronounced DOA.

Close to dinnertime, Potter found BJ going from bed to bed, obsessively checking patients for missed wounds. He gently led him away, herded him to the break room over BJ’s protests.

“It was a madhouse, we had today. And you were running on empty,” he said. “Go home, BJ. Don’t come back until you’ve had a good eight hours and then some.”

BJ started back at him. “We’re not done here,” he protested. “We’ve still got nearly all our beds full.”

“We’re not; you are,” Potter declared.

BJ was gearing himself up for a fight, searching for the words when he caught a familiar flash of curly blond hair in the doorway. Trapper’s face appeared over Potter’s – he was a full head taller than the ER chief.

“You look beat,” he said quietly. Sherman turned around, looking up, frowning.

“Plastics?” he asked. Trapper smiled.

“Yeah.”

“You’re not down here much, are you?”  
  
Trapper shrugged. “All hands means all hands, right?”  
  
“Right,” Sherman said. “Well, we appreciate it, Dr….”

“McIntyre,” Trapper supplied.

“McIntyre?” Potter said. “Didn’t there used to be a McIntyre…”

“Yup,” Trapper said smoothly. “I got a makeover. Changed my hair.”

BJ snorted. “And a few other things.”

Understanding dawned on Sherman’s face. “Right,” he said again. “Well, glad to have you aboard. We needed all the help we could get today.”

Trapper nodded. “Need some help with that one?” he asked, cocking his head toward BJ.

“As a matter of fact, Dr. Hunnicutt was just headed home,” Sherman said firmly.

“Funny enough, I was headed that way myself,” Trapper said, smirking. “I think I could help him find the door if he’s struggling to leave.”

BJ groaned and heaved himself to his feet.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he muttered as he brushed by Sherman on his way out.

“Dr. Hunnicutt,” Sherman called as BJ and Trapper headed for the door. BJ stopped and turned on a dime. Sherman _never_ called him that without patients in earshot. “You did well today.”

His voice was painfully gentle, the weight of four decades of medical practice, most of them in field or emergency medicine, settling on BJ’s ears. He nodded and turned without a word.

“And next time, don’t take my parking spot!” Sherman added as they reached the door. BJ raised a hand in acknowledgment as they headed out.

*

Hawkeye was already home when they got there, staring at the ceiling with a cup of coffee in his hands. He looked as exhausted as BJ felt. Clearly, the O’Reilly kid was still spooking him, too. He looked up as Trapper and BJ came in.

“I ordered Chinese,” he said.

“Pork fried rice for me?” Trapper asked.

Hawkeye rolled his eyes. “No, I got you steamed snow peas and cabbage soup. Of course I got you fried rice.”

BJ grunted and immediately headed upstairs. Hawkeye’s gaze followed him until his feet disappeared, then looked back to Trapper. “Maybe I need to call them and throw in another order of dumplings.”

“Definitely a four-dumpling night,” Trapper agreed. “Something went down with him.”

“Yeah.” Hawkeye ran a hand through his hair, pulling up the restaurant’s ordering site. “We worked on a kid together. He missed something, and the kid crashed. Bled out before we had a chance.”

“Shit.” Trapper sat down heavily next to Hawkeye. “What happens now?”

“Dinner,” said Hawkeye. “For us, at least. If he falls asleep, I’m not going to wake him.”

*

BJ’s stomach woke him close to midnight with a gnawing protest. Adrenaline and grief made for a hell of an appetite-killing cocktail, but sleep had managed to restore him enough to be hungry again.

He grabbed the containers from the fridge, noting the extra dumplings with the warmth of recognition and feeling cared for. He didn’t bother heating them, flopping down on the couch with a pair of chopsticks. He turned the TV on for light and company as much as anything, settling into an old doctor show. He’d watched it a lot as a kid, and the music of the opening credits was familiar and comforting.

Behind him, he heard Trapper come in, humming the theme song. He sat down next to BJ, pulling his legs up and draping them across BJ’s lap. BJ rested his elbows on Trapper’s shins as they watched together, the outdated jokes and the laugh track, and the medicine that wasn’t half terrible.

During the second commercial break, BJ finished the food and dropped his hands to absently rub Trapper’s feet. Trapper purred against the pillows. BJ dug his thumbs into Trapper’s arches, enjoying the way Trapper sighed into something that wasn’t quite a moan. He was grateful for the company, for the weight of Trapper’s legs on his lap. He didn’t want to be alone, not really. And after the nap and the food, he was far too awake.

He kept rubbing Trapper’s feet and calves until the show was over, petting his furry legs. Trapper might’ve been dozing; he couldn’t tell. As the closing credits rolled on a freeze-frame of the handsome lead doctor’s face, BJ turned it off and turned to Trapper.

“You feeling better?” Trapper asked sleepily into the pillows.

“You came down to check on me,” BJ said, his voice tinged with accusation and affection.

“Course I did,” Trapper said, nudging a toe against BJ’s thigh. “You had a rough day.”

“We all had rough days,” BJ said.

“Not like you,” Trapper insisted.

“Hawkeye was in there with me!”

“He wasn’t the one who made the call.”

“Thanks for the reminder.”

“We’ve all done it, BJ. Don’t go so hard on yourself that you won’t be able to offer me any reassurance next time it’s my turn to be the grim reaper.”

BJ closed his eyes and sighed. “Yeah.” He looked down at Trapper again. “I think I’m going back to bed.”

Trapper slid his feet down and sat up, putting a hand on BJ’s back. “You want company?” he asked, voice gentle and even.

BJ knew what he was offering. Their household might’ve choked a psychiatrist for all the time they spent not talking, but occasionally finding their way into each other’s beds. BJ saw no reason to talk about it. It worked for them. And nights like this were precisely why. He reached for Trapper’s hand and interlaced their fingers, bringing them to his lips and nipping Trapper’s knuckle. He chuckled at the contact.

“It’s been awhile. I don’t remember you having hair on your knuckles.”

He heard the unmistakable pride in Trapper’s reply. “Thanks. Grew it myself. Probably three, four months ago.”

“Come on,” BJ said, suddenly impatient. “My place, or yours?”

“Yours,” Trapper said, standing up. “Go brush your teeth first, pig-breath. I’ve got something I need to do.”

“Deal,” BJ said, heading for the stairs.


	4. Chapter 4

Trapper sped to Hawkeye’s room, hoping he hadn’t already passed out. He tapped quickly on Hawkeye’s door and stuck his head in. Hawkeye looked up from the glowing screen he’d balanced on his bent knees, peering over his glasses at the door.

“He’s awake?”

“Yeah. And he wants company. You in?”

“Did he say he wanted me specifically?”

“No.”

Hawkeye tucked a lock of hair behind his ear. “Call me if I’m needed,” he said. “I don’t want to intrude.”

*  
BJ brushed his teeth and headed back to his room. Trapper waited for him there, crosslegged on his bed. BJ closed the door behind him. “Hawk sleeping?”

“Not exactly.”

“You told him what we were up to?”

“I did.”

“And he didn’t want in.”

Trapper softened at the disappointment in BJ’s voice. “That’s not what he said,” he said, standing up and heading to stand with BJ. He ran his hands down BJ’s broad arms, and pulled him into a hug, leaning into BJ’s chest. “He said he’d wait for an invitation.”

“Oh.” BJ kissed the top of Trapper’s head and gave him a little push so he could open the door behind him. “Consider this an invitation!” he called down the hallway.

They both heard Hawkeye climb out of bed. Trapper smiled.

“Now,” BJ said, steering Trapper towards the bed, taking advantage of all six inches he had on him, “tell me what you’re up for tonight.”

Trapper felt the backs of his legs hit the bed and fell backwards, propping himself up on his elbows. He looked up and fluttered his eyelashes. “Kiss me,” he said, not entirely cheeky. “Start there."

BJ leaned forward, planted his hands on either side of Trapper’s shoulders, lifted a knee onto the bed and kissed him – slow, warm, giving Trapper time to decide if he really wanted what he was asking for. They heard Hawkeye come in, but neither of them moved. Hawkeye sprawled on the other side of the bed to watch as Trapper raised his hips against BJ’s thigh, groaning as he made contact. BJ broke their kiss to shove him further onto the bed and climb in with him. His hand found easy purchase against Trapper’s hip as he lay on his side, trailing a soft mess of kisses against the smoothest part of Trapper’s neck.

“This wasn’t supposed to be about me,” Trapper muttered, bringing a hand to BJ’s back like a condolence, or a reminder. BJ paused.

“And if I said all I wanted was to make you scream?” BJ’s voice was a hoarse whisper.

Behind them, Hawkeye snorted. BJ raised his head and an eyebrow.

“Sorry,” Hawkeye said, waving them on. “I was just thinking about how you can lead a service top to cock but you can’t make him selfish.”

Trapper chuckled. “And if certain parties just happen to like it that way, far be it from us lesser mortals to dissuade them,” he said haughtily, smoothing a hand over BJ’s hair. “If you get off on getting me off, how am I supposed to say no to that?”

“And what’s he supposed to do?” BJ tilted his head toward Hawkeye, half joking, knowing it'd get his hackles up.

“Excuse me?” Hawkeye began. “What am I, the hired help?”

“Oh, him?” Trapper said innocently, putting on a thick Southern accent and a dash of helplessness, “I was going to ask you if he could take point on the fistin’. Smaller hands, you know. Delicate-like. Figured you could watch?”

BJ worked a hand into Trapper’s curls and tugged him into a kiss that was more teeth than lip. “Only if you drop that accent and pretend it never happened,” he said, on the verge of giggling. “I take it you want me at your head?”

Trapper let out a strangled affirmative that barely made it to words.

The three of them shucked their pants and maneuvered into familiar places. Hawkeye grabbed the lube and the stash of gloves, pressing a kiss to Trapper’s hipbone before sitting up between his thighs. BJ settled against the headboard, cradling Trapper’s head in his hands, working his fingers into the sensitive spot behind Trapper’s ear. Trapper closed his eyes and hummed in pleasure, barely flinching at the cold lube as Hawkeye stroked him.

“You’re getting bigger,” Hawkeye said quietly. “Pretty sure I couldn’t do this before,” he said, grasping Trapper’s cock between his thumb and forefinger.

Trapper gasped, lifting his hips clear off the bed. “Fuck, Hawkeye, a little warning?”

BJ grinned wickedly. “But you like a good surprise.”

Trapper tilted his head up in an attempt at eye contact and stuck his tongue out at BJ. BJ responded by promptly shoving two fingers in his mouth. Hawkeye followed a beat later – two fingers to start. The mood in the room shifted almost immediately. Trapper closed his eyes and moaned around BJ’s fingers, planting his feet for better leverage.

“Oh, you like that,” Hawkeye said with a glint in his voice that probably matched the grin BJ couldn’t actually see. “Go on, show me. Squeeze my fingers. Show me you still got it. You still got it, Trap? That’s it. You’ve still got it. Fuck, you feel good, you know that?”

Trapper turned his head to dislodge BJ’s fingers. “Fuck yeah,” he said, a little raspy. “You know I do. I can take more, Hawk.”

“Easy,” Hawkeye said. “I’m not gonna let you tear. Gonna make you stretch for me,” he said, his voice soft and almost slurred. “Gonna feel you all tight around me while BJ comes down your throat.”

BJ felt his cock throb and leak at the words. He tightened his grip on Trapper’s hair, whispered a reverent _fuck_.

“Beej,” Trapper answered, finding his voice. “Get up on your knees.”

“Hmm?”

“I want you – like he said, I – oh _fuck_ fuck, fuck – ”

“Actually,” Hawkeye said a little louder, “you should do it, Beej. Give him something to suck on, help him relax a little.” To Trapper, he added, “I’m almost there. You’re so close, so fucking close. Just need a little more give, ok? Just relax for me.”

BJ moved to kneel beside Trapper’s face, pulling a pillow under his head to make it easier. Trapper reached for him, mouth open, eyes closed, a satisfied, muffled hum in his throat as BJ slowly inched his cock inside. With one hand braced on the headboard, he reached the other one down back into Trapper’s hair, not quite pulling.

“You like this?” BJ said. “You like being pinned between us, don’t you. Being stuffed from both sides, so full you can hardly take it.”

“Keep talking, Beej,” he heard Hawkeye mutter behind him. “It’s helping.”

“I can tell,” BJ continued, “by the way you’re drooling on my cock. Like you were fucking starving for it, isn’t that right, _McIntyre_?”

That earned him a whimper. BJ shuddered, squeezing his eyes shut. Fuck, he was going to lose it far too soon.


	5. Chapter 5

Trapper stretched his jaw as wide as he could. It wasn’t that BJ was so huge – though he certainly was hung well enough to give Trapper a good ache no matter how he took it. Trapper knew that the wider he could keep his mouth open, the easier it would be for Hawkeye.

And oh fuck, how he wanted it to be easy for Hawkeye.

He felt Hawkeye pause, then the cold drip of fresh lube. He twitched a little, but it wasn’t bad – not when was increasingly desperate for what was coming.

“Fuck,” he groaned, BJ’s cock rendering him incoherent. BJ responded with a barely-controlled thrust of his hips and a sharp tug on his hair.

“Fuck you,” he growled. “Keep that up and I’m not responsible for what ends up down your throat.”

Trapper made a sound that could’ve been construed as a _please_ or possibly some note of terror. He loved it when BJ got like this – controlling, gruff, greedy, coarse. It was the one way he knew to shake BJ loose from his own head and he _lived_ for it.

He brought a careful hand to the base of BJ’s cock, circling it. BJ paused immediately, pulling out just far enough for Trapper to catch his breath, and he loved him for it.

“Just want you – not to worry,” he managed. And then, because Hawkeye had seized that exact moment to push his knuckles in – “Ah! Fuck – Hawkeye _fuckfuckfuck_ , oh fuck, please –”

He caught BJ’s swift and concerned glance toward the foot of the bed before he looked back to Trapper, who, with his newfound leverage, tugged at BJ’s cock, feeding it back into his mouth, holding firm to stop him from thrusting too deep. As he did, he felt Hawkeye’s fingers curl up inside him, the relief of being past the worst of it, the satisfaction of being full.

So full.

He felt BJ’s thumb at the corner of his eye, gently wiping the tears away, his voice a distant rumble of, “So good…look how well he’s taking it, Hawk…”

*

Hawkeye did his best to relax his hand, already sore from a day of unexpectedly rigorous emergency surgeries. He looked down, marveling – the sight of his hand buried to the wrist, the barest edge of a thin black glove (by mutual unspoken agreement, they NEVER used actual surgical gloves.) Trapper getting fucked was a thing of beauty.

Trapper getting fisted was downright holy.

He turned his hand, barely enough to register, but he knew his knuckles were grazing the right spot as Trapper shook in an effort to absorb the sensation. Hawkeye grinned and turned his hand the other way.

“…look how well he’s taking it, Hawk,” BJ was saying. 

“You think he can come like this?” Hawkeye replied. “Or you think it’s too much?”

“Could go either way,” BJ teased, putting on the voice he used for medical consults. He pulled his cock out of Trapper’s mouth and reached for the water bottle on the night stand. “Trap,” he said sweetly as Trapper gulped a few swallows down, “where’d you stash your… _mechanical assistant_?”

Trapper took a huge breath that turned into a cry as Hawkeye’s hand twitched inside him again, causing near-painful ripples of pleasure. “Box – under the bed – wash it first,” he managed.

BJ scampered off, dropping a kiss on Trapper's forehead as he did.


	6. Chapter 6

While BJ was gone, Trapper scrubbed the heel of his hand across his eyes. “Fuckin’ fuck,” he said, his voice halfway back to normal, though Hawkeye’s fist was still curled inside him. “I was really gone there for a minute.”

Hawkeye grinned. “Yeah,” he said affectionately. “At some point, though, we have to bring it back to him, or he’s going to wake up tomorrow in the same funk he’s been in all night.”

“Don’t you worry,” Trapper said. “I have a plan.”

“Uh-huh,” Hawkeye said dryly. “And is this plan going to evaporate as soon as he comes back with that thing?”

“Fine. The plan is that…” Trapper raised his arm in the air and then pointed at himself, “I get off. And then…” he pointed dramatically to the empty space where BJ had been, “HE gets off while…” he shifted to point at Hawkeye, “YOU get off.” He flopped his arms down next to his head. “Everybody gets off. It’s brilliant.”

Hawkeye laughed. Trapper flinched. “Oh, fuck don’t laugh,” he begged. “Too much, too much, too – ”

“Everything okay in here?” BJ asked, coming back inside with Trapper’s favorite vibrator in hand. 

“He’s trying to kill me,” Trapper whined. “Get over here with that thing before I die of overstimulation. I need something on my dick, _Jesus_.”

BJ chuckled, turning it on to the lowest setting and curling up alongside Trapper. “There,” he said, lowering it. “How’s that feel?”

“Oh _fuck_ ” Trapper breathed. “Oh, fuck, Hawkeye, okay, move - _move_ , you bastard.”

Hawkeye chuckled and did something with his wrist that made Trapper clap a hand over his eyes and run his mouth. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, BJ, don’t stop – more, I want more – ”

BJ turned it up a couple of notches, slowly circling. “You close, Trap?”

Trapper nodded, panting. “Yeah – yeah – oh fuck, so close, so – ”

BJ lifted his hand just a hair. Trapper howled. “Fuck you!”

When BJ laughed, it came out dark. “You’ll come when I tell you to,” he murmured at Trapper’s ear. He rolled over to turn his bedside lamp a little brighter, then came back and returned his attention to Trapper’s cock. “The better to see you with,” he explained as Trapper panted and writhed.

“Beej,” Hawkeye said softly. BJ looked up. “Your hand?”

Hawkeye nodded. “About two minutes, no more, ok?” BJ nodded, lowering his hand with purpose.

Trapper’s back arched, taut with the effort of holding back, BJ teasing him while he begged for more. Sweat broke out over Trapper’s chest, stomach heaving as he panted, “I can’t, I can’t – fuck, please let me come, _please_ ” until BJ whispered, “Yes.”

There was a moment of stillness and then Hawkeye and Trapper grunted in unison as Trapper shuddered and clamped hard around Hawkeye’s fingers.

*

He didn’t last long after that, urging Hawkeye _out, out_ as Hawkeye did his best not to hurt him. Hawkeye stripped off the glove and stretched his fingers as Trapper curled toward BJ, nuzzling his chest and all but purring with contented exhaustion.

“Let me see that,” BJ said, holding a hand out to Hawkeye. Hawkeye stretched out on his side, and reached across Trapper. BJ took his hand and began to massage it awkwardly with one hand.

“Don’t be stupid,” Trapper muttered into the sheets. “C’mere, Hawk. Least I can do.” He rolled onto his back and took Hawkeye’s hand in both of his, working his cramped palm with his thumbs. Hawkeye hummed his thanks and kissed Trapper’s head.

“What about the rest of your plan?” he reminded him.

“Plan?” BJ asked. 

“Oh, yeah, smartypants here had it all worked out,” Hawkeye teased, his voice warm and affectionate.

“Uh…yeah,” Trapper said uneasily.

“Oh what, you got yours and now you’re done?” Hawkeye said in mock offense.

“No, it’s just, uh – we ‘ve never done this before.”

“Try me,” BJ said. “You’ve got me curious.”

Trapper blushed and continued working Hawkeye’s hand. “Come down here,” he muttered. “So I can whisper it to you. S’embarrassing.”

BJ and Hawkeye narrowly missed as they each lowered their head toward the same spot. “Y’all are the three fuckin’ stooges,” Trapper said, the authentic version of his childhood drawl coming out. “Okay, okay. I want,” he took a breath. “I want you guys to run a fuckin’ train on me.”

BJ’s cock throbbed and dripped at the words. “Mmm,” he said. “Say more.”

“Too fucking tired,” Trapper said, as if that explained anything. “Want you to get off. Use me.”

Hawkeye picked up the thread, whispering, “Love how you’re offering yourself up after you’ve been all stretched out.”

“Yeah,” BJ agreed.

“No,” Trapper whined. “I can make it good, make you feel good. I still got it, right Hawk? I still – ” his voice faded. 

“Let’s see about that,” BJ said, reaching between Trapper’s slack, spread legs. He was still so slick, so sensitive. BJ deliberately dragged his fingers over Trapper’s cock, making him twitch and moan, then slid two fingers into him. He felt Trapper make the effort, felt the faint flutter of muscle around his fingers. “Hmm,” BJ teased, “Think you’ll even be able to feel me once I’m inside you?”

Trapper cracked an eye open. “Let Hawkeye go first,” he suggested wryly. Hawkeye did a spit-take with an empty mouth, a single _Hah!_ , while BJ cracked up.

“Well,” he said. “You heard the man, Hawk. I think it’s your turn.” He turned down to Trapper. “How do you want this? Do you want us to pretend like you’re not here? Or that you don’t matter? Or do you want us to tell you how good you feel?”

“All of it,” Trapper said helpfully. “Fuckin’ ALL of it.”

BJ shrugged at Hawkeye, who was busy procuring condoms and finding the lube again. He checked the time – almost 2 a.m. and thought about how his boss had said not to come back until he’d had some real rest. He lay down next to Trapper again.

“Here,” Hawkeye said, moving between Trapper’s thighs again. “Hold this for me, will you?” He bent Trapper’s knee and lifted his leg toward BJ. BJ hooked an elbow into the crook of Trapper’s knee and held it against his belly.

“Sure,” he said, bending down to suck a small bruise into Trapper’s shoulder, where he’d feel it more than his chest. “No problem. Just make sure he’s good and ready for me by the time I get there.”

He heard Hawkeye hiss as he slid into Trapper, who moaned without opening his eyes, tucking his head towards BJ’s shoulder and swearing as Hawkeye started moving his hips. “Feels so good,” he said. “Such a good fucking _hole_ \- ”

BJ’s gaze immediately shot to Trapper’s face. He needn’t have worried; Trapper’s mouth hung open, face twisted in obvious lust, panting in time with Hawkeye’s thrusts.

“Can’t wait to use it myself,” BJ added. “I’ve been hard as a fucking rock watching you two.”

Hawkeye grinned, added more lube. “Hey, Beej,” he said, keeping the same pace, “kiss him or something, would you? Give me something pretty to watch.”

BJ grinned, obliging, kissing Trapper as filthily as Trapper’s slack mouth would allow. Trapper whimpered into his mouth, open, greedily taking BJ’s tongue, all muffled moans. “Wanna mark you,” BJ growled at him. “Wanna send you in tomorrow with bruises in all the places that’ll draw questions, watch you blush your way around them. Show everyone how bad you need it. How you begged for it. Greedy, filthy, _shameless_ fucking _hole_.”

He heard Hawkeye’s breath stutter, and a break in the rhythm he’d built up. He looked up in time to see him collapse, bent over Trapper’s body, braced on his hands and breathing hard. 

“Fuck, Beej,” he said cheerfully, pulling out and rolling onto his back. “I didn’t expect that kind of a show, but – ” he gave a wolf whistle.  
“Does that mean it’s my turn?” BJ asked innocently. Trapper gave a bedraggled nod. Hawkeye threw him a condom that landed half a bed away. BJ kissed Trapper one more time and crawled to the foot of the bed.

By the time he slid into Trapper, it seemed almost like an epilogue, a coda to the night. Hawkeye took his place next to Trapper, holding his other leg up this time, whispering filthy things only Trapper could hear that made him twitch and shudder and pant. After a few minutes, BJ bent over him, slid his hands under Trapper’s shoulders, cradled his head in his palms and buried his face in Trapper’s neck, hips working against Trapper’s boneless body. 

It didn’t take long, not with all three of them breathing together, exhaustion catching up with them. BJ came hard and fast, the exhaustion hitting him before he’d stopped shaking. He pulled out and collapsed next to his roommates, his comrades, the people who understood best what it meant to move through the world on the edge of life and death and fell asleep as the world began to wake.


End file.
